


as simple as Christmas with the in-laws

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Series: as simple as that [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, First Christmas, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John learns about Sherlock's childhood, John meets the in-laws, M/M, Victor Trevor - Freeform, a little bit of angst regarding Sherlock's childhood but 99percent of this is pure fluff, at Baker St then at Sherlock's parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "But we are here to discuss more urgent matters. It appears that information may have leaked.”“What kind of Intel?”“Not that kind. Mother and Father may have learned about… your current living situation.”“You’ve told them about John?!” Sherlock cried out just as John came back to the living room with cups of tea.“You cannot hide that fact forever. Anyway, they want to meet him. They invited all of us for a proper Christmas dinner tonight. As much as I do not wish to visit our family home once again I am afraid this is not a proposition we can refuse. You know how Mother gets.”Sherlock sighed and sipping from his cup of tea, looked at John. “I guess we can’t get out of this.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the second part of the "as simple as that" series. You don't need to have red the first part to understand this one, which was about establishing their relationship (note that the Fall/Mary/S4 never happened, we could say that this was set roughly after THOB). In this part of the series, John discovers a lot about Sherlock's childhood while they are at Sherlock's parents for Christmas.  
> I want to keep this series as light-hearted and fluffy as possible, but I could not avoid talking about some issues Sherlock had in his past, involving Victor Trevor, his lack of childhood friends beside Redbeard and a mention of drug use. Fortunately all of this is in the past and John is there for Sherlock, so I do hope the tone of the fic will still resemble the first part of the series. 
> 
> This first chapter takes place the morning after their first time, so directly after part 1. The fic's summary is not from chapter 1, as this will mostly likely have four or five chapters. 
> 
> The usual disclaimer: English is not my first language, sorry about any mistakes that are still in there!
> 
> Before I forget, big thanks for Kait, or sorcererofsupremepizza on tumblr/ao3 for coming up with the magnificent and silly blog title Sherlock suggests to John. You'll understand very soon.
> 
> Enjoy! :D

John woke up first as a ray of morning sunshine had filtered through the drapes hung up on the ceiling. It took him a moment to remember where he was and how he had ended up on a mattress in the middle of the living room.

When Sherlock’s breath tingled his ear, he remembered, and it was glorious. 

Stretching his arms over his head John turned around, quite proud of his performance from the night before, and ready to comment on it before noticing that Sherlock was still asleep. It took him a bit by surprise, since usually Sherlock was the first to wake up. John smiled, as he understood that he had induced himself that special kind of exhaustion. Having that king of power over Sherlock was something he was deeply happy about.

Skin against skin, John felt fully naked, not only physically, but also mentally, as if he had been stripped down to the only truth that defined him in the end: that he loved Sherlock Holmes.

He had felt it before, of course, when a very anxious Sherlock had dropped his fork at Angelo’s, when he had thrown popcorn on people’s heads at the movie theater, when they had been dancing at the gay bar, when Sherlock said that he loved him back and when – only mere hours ago - he had found his way  _inside_  him.

He felt it that morning too, when he turned on his side to see Sherlock sleeping peacefully on his front, blankets tugged under his chin, his head a dark mess of curls John had been responsible for, his mouth slightly open as he was drooling a little bit on the pillow. John giggled silently, torn between wanting to kiss him there and leaving him sleeping.

 

He was lost in contemplation for several minutes, his only regret being that the blanket covered all of Sherlock’s body, not leaving much possibility for further exploration. There will be more time for that, thought John, his chest filling with warmth and something that he would describe as possessiveness: Sherlock Holmes was his and his  _only_.

For a moment he considered getting up, going to the window and screaming the words for the whole world to know. The only thing that made him reconsider was definitely not the fact that their neighbours might not want to know about their sexual prowesses in the early hours of the morning, but that he might wake Sherlock while doing so.

Just when the thought occurred to him, Sherlock’s nose wrinkled as he mumbled something John did not quite catch. He chuckled at the ridiculous faces Sherlock was making during his sleep, trying without success to refrain from laughing when the man moved his limbs in spasms across the mattress, mumbling sounds that were probably making a lot more sense for him than for John. It took a moment for Sherlock to calm down, his dream shifting into something softer, making John curious about what was going on in his amazing brain of his.

He certainly got the clue when he felt Sherlock getting hard against his thigh.

 

It was definitely the last straw for John, who leaned in and kissed Sherlock on his nose. He did not fully wake up, only mumbled again and shook his head, as if he was instinctively getting rid of a particularly insistent bug. John granted him a second kiss, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes.

“Morning, love,” John said, smiling.

Sherlock lifted his head, his right cheek red and bearing marks from the pillow. “Mmfforningnn,” he managed to say, before dropping his head again.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you up?” he said, badly feigning innocence.

Sherlock did not reply but leaned in for a kiss, before commenting on his own morning breath. John shrugged, answering that he did not mind at all. The kissing resumed and it was sloppy and slow as Sherlock was still not fully awake but definitely in need of making the most of that morning after.

“Nice dreams?” John asked, tracing Sherlock’s jawline with his lips and kissing him on his neck.

“Mmmh, woke up to something better, though,” he said. “Ah, but before I forget…”

 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock retrieved his phone from under the mattress and started to text, his fingers moving so fast that they were blurry to John’s eye.

“Well that’s a bit rude,” he remarked, a frown spreading on his face.

Still typing, Sherlock kissed him. “Just give me a moment. Irene wants to know how it went.”

“What?! She- what?” John popped up on his elbows and ruffled his hair with his left hand, somehow furious. “ _The_  woman. Seriously. We’re in bed and you’re texting a woman. Great.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, not understanding. A moment passed – then he burst out laughing. “You’re jealous,” he properly deduced, before pecking a kiss on John’s mouth.

“Yeah, well, when she-” he started to say, before being cut off by another snog.

“She’s very gay,” Sherlock breathed in John’s mouth, “and so am I, in case you didn’t notice.”

The words appeased him a little bit and for a moment he let himself relax.

“And she helped me with a thing or two,” Sherlock confessed. “Gave me… advice.”

“Oh god, is this why you’ve bought every possible flavour of lube on Earth?”

“I didn’t know which one you’d prefer!” Sherlock tried to defend himself, his voice a little bit higher than normal.

John gave a look at the impressive stack of condoms and lube that were waiting in the corner of the pillow-cave. “Yes but… bubble-gum… Sherlock, seriously?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to try it out?”

John laughed at the ridiculous proposition, as if it was not something had crossed his mind exactly two seconds after he had woken up. He dropped on his back, snuggling against Sherlock. “Mmhh, if  _you_  insist, I guess we could.”

“Alright, but first, proof.” He raised his phone above their heads, taking a selfie of them both from the shoulders up, him winking and John giving the camera a very grumpy side-eyed look, his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“Alright, can we shag already?” John asked, getting impatient.

Pressing Send, Sherlock put the phone away, now fully concentrated on John. “All yours. You know… You’re quite handsome when you’re worked up like that.”

 

It took only five minutes for Sherlock to get a reply on his phone. The text red “ _Congrats xx_ ” and was joined with a similar picture of Kate and Irene smiling and winking back at the camera. Of course, by that time Sherlock and John were both occupied, and so neither of them recognized the text alert noise from the sounds they were already making themselves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, did you really tell our guests that we invited them for Christmas Eve or did you knowingly forget it in order for us to be alone tonight?” John sighed, sitting in the particularly empty and decorated living room at 221b.

“I don’t see what you’re implying, John, I’ve told Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and unfortunately Mycroft that we were hosting Christmas dinner.”

John raised his eyebrow. “And nobody is coming?”

Sherlock counted on his fingers: “Well Mrs. Hudson left for her sister’s since she broke her hip and could not come to London herself. Lestrade is apparently working on Christmas, he had some paperwork to fill, Molly is at her fiancé’s parents and Mycroft nicely answered that he would prefer to die in a fire than to celebrate Christmas with us.”

John rolled his eyes, doubtful that Sherlock had told him the truth. Knowing the detective, he probably persuaded everyone to stay at home with some arguments that involved food poisoning and awkward gifts. “Lovely. Still, I don’t believe you. We invited four people and no one can actually come tonight.”

Sherlock sat down beside him on the sofa and nuzzling into the crook of John’s neck, whispered a very suggestive answer that made John laugh.

“You git,” he said fondly, “but still, you shouldn’t have dissuaded them from attending. It’s  _Christmas_.”

“I feel the same,” Sherlock replied, kissing him. “But as much as I enjoy the prospect of us being alone tonight I did not dissuade anybody from coming. It is definitely a Christmas miracle at work.”

John laughed again, kissing Sherlock back. “All right, let’s say I believe you. Now we’ve got a problem since Mrs. Hudson promised us to cook and now she’s away. All stores are closed.”

“There are frogs in the freezer,” Sherlock suggested.

“We are  _not_  eating the frogs you experimented on for Christmas dinner, Sherlock.”

 

This time, it made them both smile as they resumed snogging on the sofa, mildly concerned about what they were going to eat later on.

“Oh, about Mycroft, you’ll have to call him, later.”

“What?” Sherlock exclaimed, pulling off from John’s face at once.

“He’s your brother, you have to call him on Christmas at least.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. “I am not. It would ruin the spirit.”

“You don’t believe in that.”

“I am not calling him! It would be like forcing you to call Harry.”

John got up and showed his phone to Sherlock. “Actually, I did, earlier. I got her voicemail, though. C’mon love, it’ll be over in an instant.”

Sherlock sighed. “I hate when you call me that. It persuades me to do regrettable things.”

 

Grumbling, he opened his phone and composed Mycroft’s number, internally praying to get his voicemail. Of course, it was not the case.

“Uh hello, Mycroft Holmes’s phone.”

“ _Lestrade_?” Sherlock exclaimed, sharing a puzzled look with John who was pacing behind him, trying to catch bits of the conversation.

“Ah, erhm, hello Sherlock.”

“What are you doing with Mycroft’s phone?”

“Well remember when I told you I was doing paperwork? I found the McMurphy file again but I needed some restricted documents for the case’s full closure, so I emailed my contacts at the government and they put me through to your brother, and well, we’re working on that right now since we were both free today.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in the middle as he was listening to Lestrade’s recount of events with doubt written all over his face. “O-kay… Is my brother around?”

“Oh, yes, of course, wait a second,” Greg said before Sherlock heard a series of screeching sounds coming from the other end of the line.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking?”

“Yeah, it’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, are you calling me because it’s Christmas?”

“John wanted me to call you. Anyway, merry Christmas. Have fun with the paperwork.”

He heard a sigh coming from Mycroft who took a moment to answer. Sherlock felt that his brother wanted to come up with some witty comeback, but instead kept it cordial. “Merry Christmas, brother dear.” There was some noise in the background that made Mycroft sigh again. “Ah yes, the detective inspector would like you to check the box left at the bottom of the stairs. I have to go now.”

And the call ended.

“What was that about?” John asked. “The whole paperwork thing?”

“I don’t know. Only lies have details,” he said, visibly wondering about the whole situation.

John looked at him, confused. “What do you make of it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea yet. But it looks like we’ve got mail, let’s go.”

 

He explained what had been said over the phone while they went down the stairs. There was indeed a big heavy box at the bottom of it, and Sherlock approached it with clear curiosity in his eyes.

“Maybe it’s a bomb,” he said with an amount of excitement that would have seemed unreasonable to anyone else who wasn’t John.

“I don’t think Lestrade would be sending us bombs on Christmas Eve, Sherlock.”

Yet he approached the package with care, and seeing that their names were written on it, untapped and opened it.

Inside was an explosion of colours and smells: John could see tupperwares full of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce and even a complete chocolate Yule log – Sherlock’s favourite. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had no intention of letting them starve tonight.

John took the Christmas card that was on top of the food that had been written by Molly, going by the handwriting.

 

_To John and Sherlock:_

_As this is your first Christmas as boyfriends, we figured out that you might want to spend it together: we all got other plans to leave you alone, knowing that John would probably feel the obligation to invite us over (sorry John). Here is your Christmas dinner, and your gifts._

_Merry Christmas_

_xxx_

_Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft_

Sherlock was nearly glowing. “I told you I wasn’t lying! They’ve been planning behind our back.”

“But it’s not an obligation to invite them, they’re our friends, I mean-”

Sherlock was already carrying the package upstairs. “Yeah, that, but I’m sure you’re secretly glad that we’re alone tonight.”

And John did not reply, because of course he bloody was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The box’s content was quickly inspected: they had gotten the new version of Cluedo from Lestrade, with a note promising to let them work freely on three cases that were 7s and up in the next three months. Molly had gotten John a new stitching kit from Bart’s and a human (and very sick) liver for Sherlock. Mycroft had bought them an expensive bottle of champagne John was sure would be able to cover their rent for a whole year, and there was one very  _creative and educational_  illustrated book that could only be from Mrs. Hudson.  

They spent ten minutes looking at it while sitting on the sofa, Sherlock’s mouth half-open and John’s eyes widening each time they turned a page.

“Well that’s ambitious,” he declared, still astonished about all the possibilities depicted in the book.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Actually, with practice and—”

“That’s a good plan to break our limbs.”

“Still, we could try.”

John sighed and kissed Sherlock on his temple. “Yeah, we’ll see about that later, let’s eat first.”

 

They decided to share their Christmas Eve dinner on the table of the living room – after having de-cluttered it from John’s laptop, paper files, books and a herd of used mugs and teacups. Dining in the living room permitted them to be in front of the fireplace and the Christmas tree at the same time, and it made John think about their first night in the fort Sherlock had built. The discussion turned around the case they were currently working on, involving death by stabbing and a shopping mall Santa, coming up with blog titles and going on with sillier suggestions by the minute (that was until John put his foot down – “I am not writing  _Santa’s package slips down man’s chimney_  as a blog title! Kids read these, you know?”). There was a second of silence before Sherlock asked John if he was ever going to write a blog post about them, and seeing him slightly blush even after all this time made him love the detective even more – if that was possible.

“’Course I will. If you want to,” he said.

Sherlock mumbled something about the fact that “people should know”, before quickly stuffing his face with more gravy, John’s leg shamelessly rubbing Sherlock’s calf under the table. 

As they finished eating they tried to come up with different explanations on why Mycroft and Greg were apparently working together on Christmas. John suggested that they were working on some plan to make Sherlock solve cases for his brother without him knowingly doing so, but Sherlock deduced that Lestrade had burned the whole Yard in his incompetence and that the government had sent Mycroft to cover up everything. John agreed upon this sensible solution.

Silence fell as they cut through the Yule log – Sherlock was never really talkative while eating dessert. They opened the bottle of champagne while moving onto the sofa, breaking in kisses and cuddles and laughs and soft whispering as snow was settling against the window.

 

At some point of the evening, Sherlock got up, his cheeks slightly reddened by the alcohol, and went to get a lonely package that was under the Christmas tree.

“Hey, we agreed on no Christmas presents this year,” John remarked, a little bit worried that he had himself not bought anything for Sherlock.

“Actually,” he said, while sitting down again, “we said that because you already got me the night at the ballet and I haven’t given you anything in return.”

“You don’t have to. Spending the evening with you is enough.”

Sherlock laughed, offering the little package. “You are ridiculously romantic, you know that? Anyway, it’s not a big gift, only an experiment.”

“Oh God, is it the rotten toes you were talking about the other day?”

“Not  _that_  sort of experiment.”

With curiosity – and a little bit of worry – John opened the gift only to discover a bundle of straps and something that looked like a stick.

“What the…” John started saying.

“Get up,” Sherlock said.

He went around John’s back and put two nylon straps around his arms, which made the plastic stick stand in his back and hang over his head with a little hook at the end giving him the particular look of a donkey waiting for a carrot to hang in front of him to start moving.

 

“I don’t understand,” John said, still trying to get some sense out of what he was wearing.

“Just wait for the final touch,” Sherlock replied, taking some mistletoe out of his pocket and hanging it on the hook, which propelled John into a fit of laughter.

“So every time I come up to you we’re under the mistletoe and we have to kiss,” he added, his lips stretching into his amazing  _V_  smile upon which John placed a soft kiss.

“You’re the one who’s ridiculous. We don’t any need excuses to make out, Sherlock.”

“Mmmh.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“And that?”

“Very much.”

“Want to move things to the bedroom?”

“Can we try what we saw in the book?”

“Which one?”

“You know.  _That_  one.”

“I wasn’t asking about the book. Which one… specifically?”

“Page 14.”

“Ah, all right, I guess we could. Just… try not to break anything.”

 

Fortunately enough, they did not break any bones during the process. Unfortunately, this is how Sherlock sprained his wrist on Christmas Eve.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is a little bit shorter, but chapter 3 should compensate for that. Enjoy!

“I told you this was a bad idea.”

They were both in the bathroom, Sherlock sitting on the counter, cheeks still red, while John was bandaging his right wrist. The incident was due to a miscalculation, and as much as Sherlock did not want to stop their current activity, John insisted on giving it a look when he saw that the wrist had swelled to the size of a lemon.

“It was definitely worth it,” Sherlock answered, before squealing out of pain.

“It hurts?”

“No,” Sherlock said, clearly on the defensive.

John let out a little laugh. “You don’t have to pretend. I know when you’re lying, love.”

There was an exchange of stares before Sherlock gave in. “All right, it hurts. Not badly, though. It’s just a sprain.”

“Yeah, about that, we should go to the hospital to pass an X-Ray. It doesn’t seem broken but I can’t be sure about micro bone damage.”

Sherlock sighed. “We’re not going to the hospital on Christmas. Or any other day, that is. Just leave it like that, I’ll be fine.”

John raised an eyebrow, finishing the bandage. “You won’t be able to use your hand for two good weeks at least. The bandage will do for now, but we’ll have to go to the clinic tomorrow for a splint.”

“If we must.”

“Okay now,” John said, “I’ll get some ice for you. Try to keep your wrist above your chest.”

He made it to the door, but just before he could leave the bathroom Sherlock called him. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“You know… When you’re all doctor-y and all…”

John laughed, one hand on the doorframe. “Just go to bed and I’ll be there in a moment.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The swelling had reduced a bit by morning, but the wrist was still of an alarming shade of red and purple. They agreed upon saying that it had been caused by Sherlock falling on the ice on the pavement rather than going with the official version. “Or we could say that I fell while protecting you from an impending bullet while being on a case,” Sherlock suggested, which was not exactly a realistic explanation, as John pointed out.

By midday, when they had finally agreed upon dressing up in proper clothes and coming out of the bedroom after a lazy morning in bed, Sherlock noticed a black car in front of the window.

“Oh no,” he only had the time to say before the doorbell rang.

One moment later, Mycroft and Lestrade were in their living room. After quick salutations, Sherlock sat down in his chair while John went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“I see that you are injured, brother dear,” Mycroft said, pointing his chin to Sherlock’s wrist.

“Yes, we were actually out on a case, a nine at least, and then—”

John’s voice came from the kitchen. “Actually he just fell on ice.”

“Really…” Mycroft answered, visibly deducing his own version of events while exchanging a series of stares with Sherlock.

“Erhm,” Lestrade interrupted, sitting down on a chair. “Can we get to business?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “about McMurphy’s case, have you found out about his niece’s cat yet?”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Mycroft had already spoken. “The feline was clearly a diversion, yes. But we are here to discuss more urgent matters. It appears that information may have leaked.”

“What kind of Intel?”

“Not that kind. Mother and Father may have learned about… your current living situation.”

“You’ve told them about _John_?!” Sherlock cried out just as John came back to the living room with cups of tea.

“You cannot hide that fact forever. Anyway, they want to meet him. They invited all of us for a proper Christmas dinner tonight. As much as I do not wish to visit our family home once again I am afraid this is not a proposition we can refuse. You know how Mother gets.”

Sherlock sighed, sipping from his cup of tea and looked over to John. “I guess we can’t get out of this.”

“Okay, but if you’re not here to talk about the cases… Why are you here, Greg?”

Sighing, Lestrade stood up from his chair. “That would be the second reason of this visit. You see, Mycroft and I are kind of, we, erhm, you know, we—”

“Are involved.”

John let out a little nervous laugh, putting one of his hands on his forehead.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked, confused.

“Romantically involved,” Mycroft clarified.

And Sherlock stopped moving. For a minute, at least, he stayed paralyzed in his chair, staring blankly at his brother.

“Sherlock are you all right?” Greg asked.

John went around Sherlock, putting his hand on his shoulder. “He might need a moment.”

He himself was shocked by the revelation. It certainly cleared out a lot of suspicions they had had about these two lately, but he never thought Mycroft would be willing to enter a romantic relationship, and that is with _their_ Lestrade. A thousand questions spurred into his mind: he wondered how it had happened, if they had met through Sherlock, for how long and how on Earth they had concealed it from the world’s best detective. Maybe it was simply because Sherlock did not think about his brother in that way, John understood.

Lestrade cleared his throat, still waiting for a reaction from Sherlock. Another silent minute went by, then:

“What?” Sherlock was frowning so hard that his eyes were reduced to two lines. “You mean… you… and… him?” He pointed his finger at Lestrade, then at his brother, then at Lestrade again.

And then he busted out laughing.

 

It took another five minutes to calm Sherlock down enough for him to be able to speak again. In his confusion he had moved his wrist too much and soon his eyes were a mix of tears from laughter but also from pain. He finally sat correctly in his chair, putting his chin on his hand, looking once at Mycroft and then at Lestrade as if they were clients who had committed a particularly dirty crime.

“So,” he finally said, finally interested in the conversation, “I understand that because of a genuine error, Mum knows about me and John but is still unaware of _your_ living situation.”

Mycroft straightened up. The revelation had suddenly turned into a very dangerous game of blackmail. “It is not so much a living situation,” he replied, carefully choosing his words. “You see, unlike you two, we are still not… official, as one might say. So I’d like better that our parents stay blissfully unaware of it.”

“That can be managed. I have conditions, though.”

John rolled his eyes, yet Mycroft seemed ready to do anything to conceal the truth. “Yes?”

“Nothing too demanding. You’ll only have to let me handle your most interesting government classified cases once in a while.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Oh, and you’ll have to wear Mum’s wonderful gift, tomorrow.”

“That I _cannot_ ,” Mycroft stressed.

Sherlock took out his phone and started composing a number, but before he was done Mycroft had stood up. “All right, all right! I’ll do it. Just… don’t say anything. Come on, we’re done here,” he said to Lestrade, who shyly waved goodbye before they both went down the stairs.

 

“You shouldn’t have played him like that,” John gently scolded Sherlock, while taking the cups of tea to the kitchen.

“This is a golden opportunity. Can you believe it?”

“That you blackmailed your own brother? Yes. That Mycroft is dating Greg? I guess I’ll have to take some time to take that in.”

He came back in the living room and sat down on his chair, and like a particularly agile cat, Sherlock was sitting on his lap a second later.

“He’s dating Lestrade, not « Greg »,” Sherlock remarked, before kissing John.

“You know you can be an idiot sometimes?”

He did not bother answering that statement in any other way than by snogging John. The kissing went on for some minutes before John spoke again. “You parents, then.”

“Well _that’s_ a turnoff.”

John giggled before kissing Sherlock on the nose. “We’re meeting them tonight. I have to buy them gifts.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Come on Sherlock, tell me what would they like. We can’t go at their house for Christmas without actual gifts. And we have to stop by the clinic to get you a splint.”

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, deducing him. He genuinely did not think that the perspective of meeting his parents would stress John out, but apparently it had that kind of reaction on him.

“Okay. I guess we could buy some… tools for Dad, and Mum would enjoy a book about linear algebra.”

John searched on his phone, determining which stores were still opened today and at what time their train would leave. Not waiting a second longer, he put on his coat and handed the Belstaff to Sherlock.

“Ah, by the way,” Sherlock added, “my parents are kind of… Anyway, if you could not be too demonstrative in front of them that would be…”

“Jesus, are they that bad?”

“They are terrible.”

But then again, Sherlock liked to be dramatic for the sake of it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> Chapter 3 should be up in the next few days!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John finally meets Sherlock's parents, and they are definitely not what he expected them to be. Also, a few interesting discoveries are made about Sherlock's past.

“Ooooh, John, it is so nice to finally meet you!” Mrs. Holmes squealed, kissing him two times on each cheek.

She was a lovely little woman with hair as white as snow and apparently gifted with endless energy.

“The pleasure is all mine,” John answered, a little bit confused about why Sherlock had warned him against his supposedly terrible parents. Fortunately, it did not show, since Mrs. Holmes was already hugging her son.

“Look at you, Sherlock,” she said while squeezing his face between both of her hands, “finally having someone in your life, oh, I am _so_ happy for you. Myc told me about your wrist sprain, you really have to be more careful! ”

Sherlock mumbled something John did not quite catch since Mr. Holmes came out of the house to greet them.

“Nice to meet you, John,” he said, shaking his hand while John replied with another well-prepared greeting. 

He was taller than his wife, also visibly more calm and introverted. John noticed that he was wearing a jumper and a red bowtie when his wife was dressed in a black dress and a blue cardigan.

Just after Mr. Holmes had hugged his son, Mrs. Holmes started walking towards the door. “All right, boys, Myc is already inside and I’m sure he already forgot about the turkey, so I better get back before he burns this house to the ground. Won’t be the first time. Sherlock, you can show John around and he can put his bags in the guest room.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to replicate. “The guest room? But Mum, John can use _my_ room.”

Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow and gave him a look John had seen too often on Sherlock’s own face. “No no no, the guest room is bigger, he’ll be more comfortable there.” Sure, thought John, although the real reason was probably something she was not going to mention. Obviously, Sherlock had caught on that too.

“Mum, we’re not _fifteen_ ,” he complained, while John tried to hide his smile. He did not know much about parenting but he guessed that Mrs. Holmes still thought of her son as a child. “Dad!” Sherlock said, turning to Mr. Holmes, waiting for his thoughts on the matter.

For a moment he hesitated, unsure about which side he would pick. “Sherlock is right, darling,” he finally said.

Mrs. Holmes sighed. “All right, all right. I’m telling you the guest’s room is more comfortable but you do as you wish, John.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage, Mrs. Holmes. No need to prepare another room just for me,” John replied politely, and the matter was closed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the house with Sherlock. It was a lovely little cottage all decorated for Christmas, with a big yard and a garden that would have been even more impressive in the summer. Mrs. Holmes was babbling with Mycroft in the kitchen, which did not stop Sherlock from smiling and making fun of Mycroft in his back, sometimes by adding kissing sounds and making Mycroft look over his shoulders with obvious murder envies in his eyes.

They had mostly explored the first floor by the end of the afternoon when Mr. Holmes made a big deal of showing John his tools in the garden’s shed, which bore Sherlock out of his mind and nearly froze John to death, although he politely stayed to contemplate the display of nails and other metallic parts he could not even name if he had a gun to his head.

He made it back inside an hour later, searching for Sherlock. He went up the stairs and looked at the closed doors with growing curiosity. The one at the end of the corridor was probably Mrs. and Mr. Holmes’s, and the two smaller rooms on his right were most certainly Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s. Only one of the doors was open, and without having any particular talent at deduction, John knew that it was the right one. He entered.

The room was empty but it was definitely the right one. For a moment, he contemplated the blue wallpaper representing waves and remembered how Sherlock told him that he used to play pirates when he was young. He had probably not been home too often since his childhood years to bother changing it or there was always the possibility that he secretly loved it, and John somehow thought the latter was true.

The room’s state was just like their flat’s: countless piles of opened books and papers were displayed on the desk, sometimes even piling up on the floor. The bed was done (there was a dog collar hanging on one of the wooden frame’s corner) but John suspected Mrs. Holmes had cleaned it up while dusting once Sherlock had left the family home. She obviously did not bother with the mess on his desk.

John walked up to it and picked up a notebook. He was not sure what school subject it was about, but it was full of little side-notes – observations, which were probably Sherlock’s first deductions.

_LF 43 RF 42, hand size corresponding?_

_Tacos – lunch, something with garlic for supper: BAD BREATH!!_

_Turner + Gillard?_

_VT – 44 20 8203 4930_

Not sure what to make out of these, John turned the pages only to discover very explicit doodles that made him chuckle. He never really thought about Sherlock as a teenager trying to deal with raging hormones but he definitely went through the same stages as anyone. He carefully put back the notebook in its original place before taking a step back and giving a look to the rest of the room.

The other feature of interest was definitely the bookshelves beside the desk. It contained the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, which was definitely not a surprise, with loads of scientific books and magazines. Some of them were about forensic science and chemistry, something that had interested Sherlock pretty early on, John reflected. The only fiction book John saw on the bookshelf was a hardcopy of _Treasure Island_. He instinctively picked up random magazines and started going through them, reading about the scientific discoveries that had happened twenty to thirty years ago.

He opened an edition of Nature that went about the connections in the human brain, but he struggled a bit with some pages that were sticking together. The mystery was solved the moment a picture fell on the floor: John picked it up and saw Sylvester Stallone’s face on one of those iconic black-and-white pictures of Rocky. He giggled once again, a little bit astonished about his discovery.

“Ah, John, here you—” Sherlock exclaimed, entering his room. He stopped when he noticed what John was holding.

He looked at Sherlock, smiling, and lifted the picture for Sherlock to see. “Stallone, really?”

“That’s, erhm, that’s… I mean, yeah. Ugh. We kept watching the movie as kids since it motivated Mycroft to lose weight. And, yeah, well…”

John laughed again, dropping the magazine and picture on the bed and taking a very blushing Sherlock by the waist before kissing him. “I just didn’t know he was your type, I thought you’d go for something more intellectual. Hell, I better start hitting the gym again.” He had spoken lightly, kissing Sherlock once more.

“You don’t have to go anywhere, you’re ten thousand times better than anybody else.”

“Mmmh, if you say so.”

The kissing resumed, only sloppier this time and they were almost indistinguishable from one another when someone loudly cleared his throat in the hallway.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed without turning his head, “do us a favour and bugger off.”

John chuckled, kissing Sherlock again just to piss off Mycroft a little bit more.

“As much as I would love to, I was asked to inform you that dinner will soon be ready and our parents expect you both to be… presentable.”

“Right, now go on as if you’ve had not seen anything and never darken my room’s door again.”

John laughed at this ridiculous expression, which made Sherlock grin even harder, and Mycroft sigh as he continued his way down the corridor.  

Sherlock kissed John more insistently, this time, only to be pushed back a little. “Later. We have to go and eat something.”

“Must we?” Sherlock replied, pouting.

“I am afraid we have to, it’s your parents after all.”

Sherlock sighed, and a moment later they were making their way downstairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go with smaller chapters this time because it just cuts better the story that way, but I will try to make the updates daily. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Christmas dinner! Still, some revelations are made.

“Mom, why did you cut my turkey?” Sherlock complained, looking down at his plate and then at John’s, whose turkey was still intact.

Mrs. Holmes, putting down Mycroft’s plate, tapped on her son’s shoulder in an affectionate matter. “I figured that with your wrist you’d have trouble doing it yourself.”

Sherlock’s face considerably reddened as he felt loosing at least thirty years of his life. John tried to suppress his smile: he had cut Sherlock’s food himself for breakfast and lunch that day (and had also fed him, but he was trying not to think too hard about that).

“But _Mum_ ,” Sherlock said, apparently without a clever comeback.

Everybody sat down around the table and started digging in their own food. It was a traditional Christmas meal, just like what they had eaten the previous night, but it was still better quality than they would have most of the time at Baker St.

“This is really good, Mrs. Holmes,” John commented, mostly out of politeness but also because he truly thought it was.

He suddenly felt like Sherlock going through their early stages of dating – increasingly anxious and very, very _cliché_.

“Ah, I’m glad you like it John but Tim actually cooked,” she replied, putting down her fork.

“Oh, I’m sorry I assumed.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry, dear, I’m rubbish at it. I did it for the kids, of course, but ever since Tim retired he’s been the only one cooking around here. It’s our deal. He cooks and—”

“And she cleans,” Mr. Holmes completed.

Apparently, it was a little habit of theirs to complete each other’s sentences. He wondered if Sherlock and him were ever going to start doing that. Probably, he thought, after many years of being around each other.

 

They spent the rest of the dinner asking questions, mostly about Mrs. Hudson, then the cases, and finally Mrs. Holmes’s attention turned to John. He had been prepared for a kind of getting-to-know-the-boyfriend interview, but that was definitely something else. Mr. Holmes showed interest in his tales about Afghanistan, mostly about his medical procedures and what tools he would think of and use for each of them when he had not access to proper medical attire. Mrs. Holmes asked him about his family, which he spoke elusively of, stating that his mother had died years ago and that he did not have contact with his father anymore, only a sister who also lived in London. They (well, mostly Mrs. Holmes) nearly did not give him the time to eat, inquiring about his time at university and more recently as he lived with Sherlock. During the interview – which could have toppled any interview one would pass to get into MI6 – Mycroft had continued drinking from his glass of wine, not saying anything, and Sherlock had nearly finished off his plate, which was telling since he was particularly slow with only one good hand at use.

“Seriously, Mum, Dad, leave him be. He’s barely touched his food since we sat down,” Sherlock intervened for the first time.

“I’m sorry, dear, it’s just so lovely talking to John. Don’t get me wrong, Victor was a fine lad too but he was not so much of a talker.”

John felt Sherlock tensing up on his seat. It was barely noticeable, but he knew him well, after all.

“Who’s Victor?” John asked, curious.

Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes spoke at the same time:

“ _Nobody._ ”

“Well, Sherlock’s first boyfriend, of course.”

Sherlock’s fork made a horrible sound as it rattled his plate, accidentally propelling a neatly cut piece of turkey right unto Mycroft’s forehead. There was a tensed silence between all five of them, and John wished for the matter to be dropped if it was causing Sherlock that much anxiety. Of course, no such thing happened.

“Sherlock, did you not tell John about Victor?” Mrs. Holmes asked, probably not knowing that she was pressing a sensible matter.

“Obviously not, darling.” This time, it was Mr. Holmes who had spoken gently. He did not talk a lot but he had that quiet sense of observation, and John wondered if he knew more about the situation than anybody else around the table.

“Well, there’s not much to say about—”

“Mum, _please_ ,” Sherlock begged, and that alarmed John more than anything else.

He remembered being asked about not being too demonstrative, but he could not resist touching Sherlock at that moment as to silently ask if he was all right. Trying not to be noticed by anybody else, John moved his right hand to Sherlock’s lap, and sticking his index into his pocket, pulled a bit. Sherlock apparently understood his intention since he slowly dropped his left hand under the table as to rearrange the napkin that was sitting on his thighs (something he was always taught to do while being at the family home), but instead met John’s hand.

John saw the tension slowly fading away Sherlock’s shoulders as their fingers intertwined under the table. The whole action had taken a maximum of ten seconds, giving the opportunity to Mrs. Holmes to insist on the subject.

“Son, there is nothing wrong with—”

“Mycroft, stop acting like a _seven_ years old.” Sherlock had spoken to his brother out of the blue, and John had noticed how he had stressed the number.

Mycroft sighed, putting down the napkin beside his now empty plate. “Mother, Father, I have also some kind of announcement to make.”

“Yes?” Mrs. and Mr. Holmes both said at the same time.

“I am currently… seeing someone.”

John opened his mouth while Sherlock squeezed his hand. He had no idea what had happened but apparently Mycroft had decided to admit his not-so-secret-anymore relationship to his parents, when not even twelve hours earlier he was making them swear not to ever mention it in front of the family.

It was obviously a fantastic distraction, as Mrs. Holmes gasped and Mr. Holmes’s eyes went big. “Oooh, that’s wonderful, Myc! Who’s he?”

“A detective inspector at the Yard. He’s worked with Sherlock a lot,” Mycroft said, with his usual polite tone.

“Yeah, he’s actually a good friend of ours,” John added, thinking it would be probably the right time to sweep back in the conversation.

“Oh, so you met through John and Sherlock, how _lovely_. Why didn’t you invite him here for Christmas, dear?”  

Mycroft fumbled an answer, talking about how it still was not that official, that they were only dating. For the next few minutes the attention was fully on him as his parents asked about any interesting details. It gave the time for Sherlock to relax a bit and John kept on tracing the inside of his palm with his thumb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eventually, everybody got up to help clean the table while Mrs. Holmes went to the kitchen to get the dessert. At some point she had called Sherlock to come and help her out, as Mr. Holmes was explaining to John the very long history of triple square screws in German factories.

“Ah, I forgot about your wrist, Sherlock. Well you definitely can’t help me with that, it’s to heavy for you,” John heard Mrs. Holmes’s voice coming from the kitchen. “John! Could you come here and help me for a moment? _Don’t forget the crackers_ , Tim!”

“Ah, that’s right,” Mr. Holmes said, suddenly remembering. “Sherlock, son, come here for a moment.”

John confirmed out lout that he was coming and politely thanked Mr. Holmes for the (not-so-interesting, but that he would never say) conversation they just had, before going to the kitchen. He met Sherlock at the door between the rooms just as he was going in the opposite way. For a moment they stumbled around, letting each other pass first then trying to go at the same time, which was obviously not working.

Mrs. Holmes rattled her throat. “The mistletoe, boys!” she said while pointing at it as it was hanging over their hands on the door’s frame. “It’s tradition!”

Sherlock grumbled a bit, hands in his pockets, and John remember what he had said about not being too demonstrative around his parents. He still did not understand the reason of it since the elderly couple seemed relaxed and happy about them, but as much as he wanted to kiss Sherlock, he had to stick by his promise.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock finally said, grabbing John’s head and kissing him fiercely.

Knowing Sherlock’s method, it was not particularly the most chaste kiss they shared, and for a moment John forgot where he was, putting his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and kissing him back hard.

He certainly did not notice Mrs. Holmes beaming eyes or Mycroft, who was waiting behind them to get to the kitchen, sighing as loudly as he could. Finally, John let go of Sherlock, deciding that it was getting a little bit too non-family friendly. They would have time for that later.

“Well,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mrs. Holmes put her hand in front of her mouth, tears in her eyes, “now we’re never getting out of this house.”

Suddenly, John realized why he had been asked to not show so much affection for Sherlock. It was not that his parents were disapproving of it – it was because that they were so delighted that they would try to make them stay forever. He nearly busted out laughing at his epiphany, and kissed Sherlock again, to make Mycroft wait a little bit more behind them, and to let Mrs. Holmes see her son finally _bloody_ happy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mrs. Holmes’s little stratagem had worked out perfectly, and now that they had shared that kiss, John was much more relaxed and physically affectionate towards Sherlock. They got to cut through the Yule log, which was delicious (“Mrs. Graham baked it for us. You remember her, Mycroft, of course? She would always give you a ton of pastries when she was babysitting you!”), and finished the traditional dinner by opening some crackers. At the end of it, everyone was laughing - except for Mycroft, who was at least smiling – and Sherlock snapped a picture of him wearing a purple paper crown.

“Right,” he had said, as if it was his call for the night, “I have an important Skype meeting tonight, so I expect you to stay quiet and not disturb me.”

“Are they really making you work on Christmas?” Mr. Holmes asked, a little concerned.

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied with a smug smile on his face, “but do give our best wishes to Lestrade.”

“Do shut up, brother dear.”

“Language!” Mrs. Holmes shouted, and John jumped in his seat. “But really Myc, do give him our best wishes, from the whole family.”

But Mycroft was already gone out of sight, stomping up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was slightly out of inspiration so I decided to use Ben's parent's names for Mrs. and Mr. Holmes. Also, you'll probably notice that my notions of happy parents was largely influenced by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley haha. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up tomorrow! Thank you for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Holmes shows John some family pictures.

After John had helped Mr. Holmes clean up the rest of the table he joined Sherlock on the sofa, close enough to let Sherlock get an arm around him and for him to stroke his thigh. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes joined them a good five minutes later (“We should let them have a moment alone,” Mr. Holmes had advised his wife, but five minutes was the longest they could manage), with a heavy vintage photo-album.

Sherlock sighed in John’s ear as to the necessity of going through memories of his dull (as he would say) childhood, but frankly, John was more curious than ever to know about the kid who had lived in the room upstairs and gotten off to old pictures of Sylvester Stallone.

Mrs. Holmes started showing pictures of a young Mycroft and a baby Sherlock, giving way too much detail about each shot, which was properly dated and descripted on each page of the album, a level of organization Sherlock had never shown in his life but in his own mind. John got to discover that the rumours were true: Mycroft had really been overweight from an early age, only to drastically loose everything over his few teenage years just before he had gotten to college at barely sixteen. (“Oxford, of course, Sherlock went to Cambridge, but you already knew that.”) There were other pictures that one might find in any family’s picture album, mostly revolving around the kids, containing the typical pictures of babies in nappies (“Oh God,” would say Sherlock, blushing) and the ever-infamous shot of the two-year old in the bath tub (“Is this really necessary?”).  

There were lots of firsts, of course, showing Sherlock eating his first chocolate cake, where it was nearly impossible to distinguish his face from the cake itself, the few first steps alone, the first Christmas where his face was tomato-red from crying on Santa’s knees (who was obviously Mr. Holmes with a white beard on) and all those memories that they had printed out to remember: that time when he had finally fallen asleep after three hours of non-stop crying, the one time when he was five and had decided to start in the flower business by selling dandelions to delighted neighbours and when Mycroft had helped him count the money he had made that same night. There were countless pictures of explorations and adventures in the garden as he was wearing a pirate hat on most of them, a picture of the wooden sword he had gotten on his sixth birthday and of course, later that same year when Redbeard arrived.

For the next few pages there was not a single shot of little Sherlock without the presence of the Irish setter. There were pictures of them sitting and reading together, from the first day Sherlock had gone to school and had posed for the picture with the dog just before leaving. There were tones of picture but none of them indicated that the child had made any friends but for his dog.

“It was forbidden for the dog to climb on the bed, obviously, but Sherlock always knew how to get him in his room at night. He did not know that we knew about his little secret, but oh well. You loved that dog _so much_ , Sherlock.”

Again, John could feel Sherlock slightly tense up beside him, and so he subtly took his hand, rubbing his thumb in his palm.

“You were so devastated when he had to be put to sleep. I think… Oh, there it is,” she said, looking for a picture she found on the next page.

It was taken from an awkward angle, but there was definitely a young Sherlock sitting in his pirate hat – he looked no more than ten years old. He was sitting in front of the fireplace, his knees folded under his chin, but what struck John the most was the familiarity of it all. As if he had been there before.

“You used to build these forts all the time, Sherlock, do you remember? So you could play pirates with Redbeard, in them. The day he died you did not want to come out of the fort, you said you were waiting for him to come back. We couldn’t tell you, of course, you were so young, so we thought we’d get you to your bed once you’d fallen asleep, but you wouldn’t sleep. Eventually Mycroft went in there and talked some sense in you,” Mrs. Holmes recalled.

So that was it, John thought. The meaning of the cave Sherlock had built that night, not so long ago. He had thought of it as something intimate at the time, but only now he understood the sincerity of it all. John could not help but imagine a young Sherlock waiting for his best friend to arrive, only to learn that he had lost him forever.

Subconsciously, John was holding Sherlock’s hand harder and harder. For the first time that evening he felt terribly uneasy. He knew that they had to talk about it, but for the moment they were stuck on the couch and so he continued to made absent-minded humming noises as Mrs. Holmes continued her tale of Sherlock’s early teenager years.

The following pictures were not as much interesting. Mycroft had already gone away by that time, the married couple was working a lot more, and on most pictures Sherlock was caught studying. Sometimes a birthday photo would come up, but it was always only with the close family, and no friends at all.

One of the last pictures of the album was one that instantly attracted John’s eye: there was Sherlock, in his early twenties, probably at university then, having the facial expression of someone who did not want to be caught on camera. He was wearing a pastel-blue jumper too big for him, blue jeans and white snickers, while the young man beside him was nearly all dressed in black, a leather jacket thrown on his shoulders, gracefully smoking beside Sherlock who was trying to hide his own cigarette from the person behind the camera. His eyes wandered on the man he did not know but reminded him of Michelangelo’s David, with his squared jaw, pale skin and golden curls.

“Ah, that’s Victor,” Mrs. Holmes said, needlessly pointing at the blonde man.

John refrained from letting his jaw drop on the floor. Twenty-years old Sherlock was simply gorgeous, although he looked thinner and paler than ever, if that was possible, with dark circles under his eyes and a shy-but-defiant attitude. Trevor, as beautiful as his features might have been, looked plainly arrogant. There was no ambiguity about which one John liked better.

He started for a moment before Mrs. Holmes clasped the album close, which made him jump.

“That’s the end of it! Goodness, it’s getting late, we should probably call it a night,” she said, looking at her husband who had fallen asleep long ago in his Lazy-boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I estimate that there are four or five chapters left (including a short epilogue), so they will arrive in the next few days. As always, I hope you enjoyed it! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally alone together, John and Sherlock talk about what just happened.

 

After they had gotten upstairs and changed into their pyjamas, John got into Sherlock’s bed, waiting for him to return from the bathroom. When he did, he closed the light without saying anything, and wiggled his way under the blankets, turning his back to John.

John knew Sherlock well enough to understand that it was not a rebuttal, only that he wanted to be properly spooned and held, and so John got behind him and passed his arm around his chest.

They spent the next few minutes in silence, hearing Mr. and Mrs. Holmes finish with the bathroom at the end of the corridor. When silence fell in the house, Sherlock was the first to speak.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

The words struck John. Sherlock apologizing was not something he would hear often the past two years, and genuinely got him more worried than he was initially. “What about?”

“Redbeard. The cave. Our first night. I should have told you, then.”

John nodded, kissing Sherlock on the back of his neck, holding him tighter. “Don’t worry about it, love.”   

There was a moment of silence, and when Sherlock spoke, John could hear the hesitation in his voice. “You don’t mind? I mean… it’s silly and weird.”

“No I don’t. And it’s not. I’m glad you shared that with me.”

“It’s just that… I don’t know. He was my best friend. You’re my best friend. It made sense, somehow.”

Again, John kissed him on his shoulder. “I understand.”

Sherlock believed him. “Oh, and sorry that I didn’t tell you about Victor.”

John was suddenly fully awake. “Yeah, what was that about, with you and Mycroft at dinner? I never thought he would tell your parents about Greg.”

Sherlock sighed, turning on himself to face John. “As you’ve seen, nothing stops Mum from pushing a subject she wants to talk about. Mycroft and I made a deal when I was about twelve that if the conversation was upsetting, we would call out a number between zero and nine.”

“Zero and nine?” John asked, curious.

“Richter scale. Seven would be creating enough distraction for the original conversation to be dropped on the spot. I did not know he would go for the full reveal.”

There was a moment of silence as John considered what had been just said. “That’s actually quite clever.”

“I know. I used it way more than he ever did, but I think he intended it like that. As much as we have our differences, he was not always a rubbish big brother. The day Redbeard died… You heard my mom. He came from Oxford on the first train.”

“What did he tell you, then?”

Sherlock hesitated, visibly unsure if he was about to reveal that secret. “Do you mind if I don’t tell you tonight? I will, eventually. Just not tonight.”

“Okay,” John whispered in Sherlock’s hair, stroking his back. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but why come you never told me about Victor? It sounded earlier like you two were serious.”

Sherlock’s laugh was full of irony. “Certainly not. Things ended way before it had gotten anywhere. He had not the best influence on me.”

“Drugs?” John deduced.

“Yeah, there was that. He was very polite and charming so my parents never knew, of course.”

“Did you love him?” The words had escaped John’s mouth before he could hold them back. He was afraid he had gotten too far, but was surprised to see that it did not bother Sherlock as much as he thought it would.

“At the time I certainly thought I did. It was unrequited. Or so he made it seem. I made a dumb move and he left. I never saw him again. Now that I know better I’d say it was more of an obsession than love. He was like the sun, you’d get too close and you’d get burned.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, and he truly was.

 

In all of this Sherlock certainly did not deserve rejection. Not when John had seen how much and how hard he could love, but also how fragile and sensible he truly was under the mask he kept on wearing. He felt the irresistible feeling in his guts to find that man who had caused Sherlock so much pain and to punch him senseless. Not now. Now was about loving Sherlock, and making him feel safe.

But there was something he wanted to know first. “Sherlock… You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but would you say that you first ODed around the time he left?”

There was a moment of silence. He could hear Sherlock’s breathing in his neck. “I would say it was around that time, yes.”

John’s heart ached so much he thought it skipped quite a few beats. “Come here,” he said, holding Sherlock tight in his arms, “I love you so much.”

“I know. I love you too. Even more when you’re so blatantly jealous.”

John tried to hide his surprise with a quiet laugh. “I’m not!”

But then, he knew just by looking at Sherlock’s face that he was not believable enough.

“All right. A little bit. But definitely angry too— and dear God above he looks like…”

An angel? A roman sculpture?

“I know,” Sherlock simply said, tightening his grip on John’s t-shirt, “but then again you’re the best sex I ever had.”

John chuckled. “I’m the _only_ sex you ever had.”

“ _That is exactly my point,_ ” Sherlock meant to say, but the words were lost into John’s mouth as they were already kissing, tongue to tongue, sheets flying around the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near! The story will finally have 8 chapters (including the epilogue which is a bit shorter).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having some quality time alone at the in-laws' is definitely a struggle, sometimes.

“Shit, I forgot the lube,” John realized, nearly too late.

Sherlock made an inhuman sound. “I _told you_ to check our bags one more time!”

“Yeah, well if you would have actually helped packing we could have avoided this. Instead I had to worry about which specific brand of shampoo you wanted me to put in your bag,” John bickered, irritated.

“And you _still_ got the wrong one,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms on his chest.

John sighed. “It’s for one shower. One!”

Sherlock tried to talk back but John kissed him before any noise could escape his mouth. “All right, your parents…”

“Not helping, here.”

“Shut up,” and John kissed him again. “I was saying that your parents probably have lube somewhere in the house?”

“And you’re asking me, how would I know?”

John sighed. “First, it’s your house too. Second, aren’t you supposed to be this genius detective or something like that?”

Dropping his head on the pillow, Sherlock rubbed his face. “Yes, but you know that I can’t think properly when I’m like that.”

John huffed proudly. He was the only one able to reduce Sherlock to a non-thinking mess. “Okay,” he wracked his brain. “It’s probably in the bathroom, that’s where they would keep the—”

“Just go!” Sherlock interrupted him, visibly impatient.

“Why can’t _you_ go? They are _your_ parents!”

“I can’t go, they are _my_ parents! For God’s sake, go and be quick!”

And without further ado, John was kicked out of the bed. He took the time to quickly put his pyjamas back on – he would certainly not walk around naked or half-naked at his in-laws’ house.

 

He wandered down the corridor, careful not to open the wrong door and walk in on Sherlock’s parents or even on Mycroft. If that were ever going to happen he would probably flee in the middle of the night and walk back the hundreds of kilometers that were distancing him with London.

Fortunately enough, there was light and sound coming from the bathroom, and so John waited outside. It was most likely Mycroft only brushing his teeth after his Skype-date, or something like that.

As few moments later, as Mr. Holmes emerged from the bathroom, John realized he had been wrong.

“Ah, John!” Mr. Holmes exclaimed before fell the awkward silence between two men who had nothing to talk about nor any context to help them create any conversation.

And John’s very visible arousal was definitely not helping the situation.

He moved a bit, trying to politely hide himself, but Mr. Holmes was still blocking all entry to the bathroom.

“I’ve wanted to ask you earlier, but I never got the chance: do you have door knobs or door handles at your flat in London?”

 “Uhm, I could be mistaken but I do believe that we have… the usual ones? Handles?” John answered.

“Ah you see, that is the problem with modern buildings – somehow the door knobs are completely eliminated. Here of course, we only have door knobs, as I told you already the house was built in 1908. They changed the doors since, at least for times if I can recall correctly – 1935, 76, 87 and two years ago, of course, when Wanda decided she wanted doors with windows – to let more light inside. But I do believe we always had door knobs. It is most definitely the safer option, I do not quite understand why modern designs always tend to go with handles.”

John nodded his way through the monologue, internally getting rather impatient. Door knobs, really? Sherlock was waiting for him in the bedroom – very, very naked and ready – and he was here in the hallway casually discussing door knobs with Mr. Holmes.

“You know, I still go to London from time to time – they do have more specialized hardware stores. If you ever want me to take a look at these door handles, and maybe to change them to knobs – which I definitely suggest – I could always give you both a hand with that.”

Ah. Finally, John understood: this was not about door knobs or handles or security – it was about spending some time once in a while with his son. Typical Sherlockian strategy, he recognized.

“Of course, yes, I mean, if it’s really not safe enough to walk around in the flat, we’d be glad to have you give a look at it,” John replied kindly, playing along.

Sherlock had said prior to the visit that his father was not very talkative. It was definitely not Mrs. Holmes’ level of extroversion, but John did find that Mr. Holmes had quite a lot to say, even if it was mostly about tools and hardware stores. Probably something Sherlock did not want to hear about, and so any discussion between the two had been somehow limited ever since. Mr. Holmes was most likely asking John to be the link between the two of them.

“Great, great,” he said, “if I’m around I’ll let you know.”

There was a noise coming from Sherlock’s room that definitely sounded like John’s name.

“Good. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I think Sherlock needs something so I’ll just use the bathroom if you don’t—”

“Ah, no of course, I should not keep you up like that,” Mr. Holmes apologized. “Just one last thing, John…” He looked him straight in the eyes. “Thank you. I am glad Sherlock has you.”

“I am too,” he solemnly replied.

Finally, Mr. Holmes stepped out of the bathroom’s doorframe and so John ran into it, not bothering to close the door behind him. He opened the cupboards one by one as quickly as he could while trying not to make too much noise. Lube was nowhere to be found.

He cursed under his breath, shoving aside shaving creme, oils and Band-Aids, without any success. Suddenly, he heard Mr. Holmes clearing his throat right behind him.

He stopped altogether, wondering if he would be mad about him making a mess out of his bathroom or if he would insist on giving him a speech about roof tiles next. It was neither options, apparently.

“You should try the second one to your left,” Mr. Holmes said, with a look that meant a lot, before disappearing down the hallway.

Astonished, John opened the designated cupboard.

It was there.

 

He made it back to the bedroom in no time, only to find again a complaining Sherlock. “What took you so long?”

John closed the door and got on the bed. “Your father started telling me—”

“Stop talking right now,” Sherlock warned him, silencing him with another lingering kiss.

John breathed in his mouth. “Doorknobs, anyway, you don’t want to _oh_ —”

 

***

 

The hardest part was definitely about staying as silent as possible. John could always manage – he had some experience from his teenage years when he would sneak in his girlfriend’s parent’s house – Sherlock… not so much. He had definitely grown accustomed to Baker Street’s thick walls and to the fact that Mrs. Hudson did not mind at all the latest developments of their relationship. Yet, at his parent’s house it was definitely another deal, and it was needless to state that Sherlock was struggling.

His worst fears were confirmed when the nightlight beside his bed flicked three times.

“Shit,” he whispered in John’s ear. “It’s my mom. Don’t move, don’t speak.”

John obliged, a bit irritated at the sudden interruption. They both heard steps coming towards their door, and he knew that Mrs. Holmes was probably listening to see if they were already sleeping. John felt as if he was a teenager again, and it made him silently chuckle.

Finally, they heard steps continue down the corridor, and resumed.

“What’s the deal with the light?” John asked, a little bit curious.

“Uh, when we were kids we discovered that the power for my nightlight was connected to Mycroft’s room. He would hear first if Mum was going down the hallway and so he would flicker the lamp, and I would usually have time to get to bed and pretend I was sleeping.”

John huffed. “It sounds like he wasn’t a rubbish brother after all.”

The answer, surprisingly enough, came from the other side of the wall. “I like to think that I am not,” Mycroft said, sounding clear and loud even if he was in another room. “Now, please,” he said, with despair in his voice, something John had never heard before, “can you two just go to sleep?”

He opened his mouth, astonished at this invasion of their privacy (or maybe it was the other way around?). “Yeah, I forgot to tell you that the walls are _really_ thin,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, before kissing him again.

And as soon as they stopped laughing, they found their way to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! The next chapter will mark the end of this work, it will arrive very soon but also be a shorter. :) Thanks for reading and as always I hope you enjoyed it!


	8. Epilogue

John woke up to Sherlock’s absence. It was the middle of the night: it was still dark outside, and he sleepily rummaged his hand under the duvet in the hope of finding some human warmth. Nothing. He sprung on his elbows, and Sherlock was not there.

John reassured himself thinking that Sherlock probably went ot the bathroom or to get a midnight snack – it was hardly unusual, after all. He waited for five minutes, growing more anxious and desperate for him by the second before deciding that he was himself going to go search for Sherlock.

John went to the bathroom, but it was empty. He then decided to go downstairs, and only when he arrived in the living room he saw Sherlock curled up on the sofa.

“Sherlock, what are—” John started saying before he realized that the detective was sleeping profoundly, his lips slightly parted as he was softly breathing. There was a moment of confusion where he questioned why Sherlock had left the comfort of their bed to go sleep on the sofa (had he done anything to upset him?) but all he could remember was the fantastic sex they just had. There must have been something else.

He did not have the heart to wake him up, but John could not bear to go back to the room alone, and so he decided instead to sit on the sofa.

It was at that moment that he noticed the biscuits and the milk.

Sherlock had put it by the fireplace, near the Christmas tree, and John did not find it as silly as it was endearing. At that precise moment, he thought about how some people would say that Sherlock did not have a heart when he had, in fact, the biggest and kindest one John had ever heard beating. And as a doctor, he had heard a lot of hearts. Just to prove his point he took the man’s wrist, taking his pulse. It started pacing a bit quicker under John’s touch, and while mumbling in his sleep, Sherlock snuggled against him.

Sherlock’s heart was not John’s, no, that was not true: Sherlock had a heart he trusted John Watson with, it was merely lent to him, and the best he could do was to protect it and make himself worthy of it for the rest of his life.

And that Christmas night, John silently made that vow, witnessed only by the fireplace, the Christmas tree and the biscuits and the milk sitting there on the floor waiting for someone that would never come.

John pulled a blanket on the both of them, and trying not to wake Sherlock, made himself comfortable against him, his head resting on his shoulder. Soon, he was drifting in the land of dreams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wondered if Sherlock would do the same. After all these years, was it possible that his little brother had not changed at all? “All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage,” he had said to him not once but twice, and if there was one thing Mycroft hated, it was definitely repetition. He had thought at the time that the advice would have helped Sherlock with self-preservation. He did not want his little brother to go through the pain of another Redbeard, of another Victor Trevor. Sherlock did not handle heartbreak well, Mycroft knew, and he had not been sure about John Watson. It was easy to see his brother as an arrogant and insensible prick, but it took another man to understand that he was only that way because he was the opposite at his core.

That may have been influenced by Mycroft’s doing, he knew, and the things he had said to his little brother.

John had proven himself to be a considerate friend, but Mycroft was still unsure if he was going to be a considerate partner. At least, there was one aspect he did not have to worry about, as he had witnessed earlier that evening.

 _No_ , he would definitely not think about that.

Shivering, he sat up in his bed before putting his slippers on. He had been half-asleep five minutes ago but now was quite awake, and upon further deductions he was sure that Sherlock had left his room some time ago.

After all these years, then, he was still the same.

A rare smile stretched his lips as he left the room, peaking at the end of the corridor. _Clear_. Mycroft tried his best to avoid the third and seventh steps – that he remembered – not to wake anyone up with the creaking. It would, after all, have disastrous consequences.

A look in the living room confirmed his hypothesis: Sherlock had gotten there in the middle of the night by himself, just as he would do in his younger years, waiting for Santa to come and leave his gifts under the tree. Sherlock was four (and Mycroft eleven) when he had suggested that he would leave biscuits and milk – that was after all the tradition, to leave a little gift for Santa before he continued distributing the gifts around the world. And since that Christmas, more than thirty years ago, Sherlock obeyed.

It had stopped soon after Redbeard, though, and Mycroft reflected about how his brother had grown so quickly in a mere number of months. No more pirates, no more dogs, no more Santa, no more lies. Sherlock had hated lies ever since.

But this year, it was different. Somehow, Sherlock had felt comfortable that night showing that after all this time he was still holding onto that part of him that wanted to believe in childish fairy tales. He was resting there, on the sofa, peaceful and resting deliberately without his armor.

“Somehow,” Mycroft whispered, raising an eyebrow. He was incredibly slow sometimes, when it came to that matter.

All of this was due to the man who was sleeping beside his little brother.

He nodded, as if he silently approved of the union, and as he would do all those years ago, sat in front of the fireplace to drink the milk and eat the biscuits. This year, for the first time, the precious offering came with a card. It red:

 

_Merry Christmas, Mycroft_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story and its ending. :) Thank you for reading, and special thanks to those who left kudos and commented. <3 As this is a part of a series, this Sherlock and John will most likely come back to a new fanfic near you. I have already some ideas, but it might take a while before I post anything. 
> 
> You can follow me at weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr for writing updates. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I am weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr. :)


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